Sword Blades and Poppy Seed Part 1

Sword Blades and Poppy Seed.

by Amy Lowell.

Preface

No one expects a man to make a chair without first learning how, but there is a popular impression that the poet is born, not made, and that his verses burst from his overflowing heart of themselves. As a matter of fact, the poet must learn his trade in the same manner, and with the same painstaking care, as the cabinet-maker. His heart may overflow with high thoughts and sparkling fancies, but if he cannot convey them to his reader by means of the written word he has no claim to be considered a poet. A workman may be pardoned, therefore, for spending a few moments to explain and describe the technique of his trade. A work of beauty which cannot stand an intimate examination is a poor and jerry-built thing.

In the first place, I wish to state my firm belief that poetry should not try to teach, that it should exist simply because it is a created beauty, even if sometimes the beauty of a gothic grotesque. We do not ask the trees to teach us moral lessons, and only the Salvation Army feels it necessary to pin texts upon them. We know that these texts are ridiculous, but many of us do not yet see that to write an obvious moral all over a work of art, picture, statue, or poem, is not only ridiculous, but timid and vulgar. We distrust a beauty we only half understand, and rush in with our impertinent suggestions. How far we are from "admitting the Universe"! The Universe, which flings down its continents and seas, and leaves them without comment. Art is as much a function of the Universe as an Equinoctial gale, or the Law of Gravitation; and we insist upon considering it merely a little scroll-work, of no great importance unless it be studded with nails from which pretty and uplifting sentiments may be hung!

For the purely technical side I must state my immense debt to the French, and perhaps above all to the, so-called, Parna.s.sian School, although some of the writers who have influenced me most do not belong to it. High-minded and untiring workmen, they have spared no pains to produce a poetry finer than that of any other country in our time.

Poetry so full of beauty and feeling, that the study of it is at once an inspiration and a despair to the artist. The Anglo-Saxon of our day has a tendency to think that a fine idea excuses slovenly workmanship. These clear-eyed Frenchmen are a reproof to our self-satisfied laziness.

Before the works of Parna.s.sians like Leconte de Lisle, and Jose-Maria de Heredia, or those of Henri de Regnier, Albert Samain, Francis Jammes, Remy de Gourmont, and Paul Fort, of the more modern school, we stand rebuked. Indeed--"They order this matter better in France."

It is because in France, to-day, poetry is so living and vigorous a thing, that so many metrical experiments come from there. Only a vigorous tree has the vitality to put forth new branches. The poet with originality and power is always seeking to give his readers the same poignant feeling which he has himself. To do this he must constantly find new and striking images, delightful and unexpected forms. Take the word "daybreak", for instance. What a remarkable picture it must once have conjured up! The great, round sun, like the yolk of some mighty egg, BREAKING through cracked and splintered clouds. But we have said "daybreak" so often that we do not see the picture any more, it has become only another word for dawn. The poet must be constantly seeking new pictures to make his readers feel the vitality of his thought.

Many of the poems in this volume are written in what the French call "Vers Libre", a nomenclature more suited to French use and to French versification than to ours. I prefer to call them poems in "unrhymed cadence", for that conveys their exact meaning to an English ear. They are built upon "organic rhythm", or the rhythm of the speaking voice with its necessity for breathing, rather than upon a strict metrical system. They differ from ordinary prose rhythms by being more curved, and containing more stress. The stress, and exceedingly marked curve, of any regular metre is easily perceived. These poems, built upon cadence, are more subtle, but the laws they follow are not less fixed. Merely chopping prose lines into lengths does not produce cadence, it is constructed upon mathematical and absolute laws of balance and time. In the preface to his "Poems", Henley speaks of "those unrhyming rhythms in which I had tried to quintessentialize, as (I believe) one scarce can do in rhyme." The desire to "quintessentialize", to head-up an emotion until it burns white-hot, seems to be an integral part of the modern temper, and certainly "unrhymed cadence" is unique in its power of expressing this.

Three of these poems are written in a form which, so far as I know, has never before been attempted in English. M. Paul Fort is its inventor, and the results it has yielded to him are most beautiful and satisfactory. Perhaps it is more suited to the French language than to English. But I found it the only medium in which these particular poems could be written. It is a fluid and changing form, now prose, now verse, and permitting a great variety of treatment.

But the reader will see that I have not entirely abandoned the more cla.s.sic English metres. I cannot see why, because certain manners suit certain emotions and subjects, it should be considered imperative for an author to employ no others. Schools are for those who can confine themselves within them. Perhaps it is a weakness in me that I cannot.

In conclusion, I would say that these remarks are in answer to many questions asked me by people who have happened to read some of these poems in periodicals. They are not for the purpose of forestalling criticism, nor of courting it; and they deal, as I said in the beginning, solely with the question of technique. For the more important part of the book, the poems must speak for themselves.

Amy Lowell.

May 19, 1914.

Sword Blades And Poppy Seed

A drifting, April, twilight sky, A wind which blew the puddles dry, And slapped the river into waves That ran and hid among the staves Of an old wharf. A watery light Touched bleak the granite bridge, and white Without the slightest tinge of gold, The city shivered in the cold.

All day my thoughts had lain as dead, Unborn and bursting in my head.

From time to time I wrote a word Which lines and circles overscored.

My table seemed a graveyard, full Of coffins waiting burial.

I seized these vile abortions, tore Them into jagged bits, and swore To be the dupe of hope no more.

Into the evening straight I went, Starved of a day's accomplishment.

Unnoticing, I wandered where The city gave a s.p.a.ce for air, And on the bridge's parapet I leant, while pallidly there set A dim, discouraged, worn-out sun.

Behind me, where the tramways run, Blossomed bright lights, I turned to leave, When someone plucked me by the sleeve.

"Your pardon, Sir, but I should be Most grateful could you lend to me A carfare, I have lost my purse."

The voice was clear, concise, and terse.

I turned and met the quiet gaze Of strange eyes flashing through the haze.

The man was old and slightly bent, Under his cloak some instrument Disarranged its stately line, He rested on his cane a fine And nervous hand, an almandine Smouldered with dull-red flames, sanguine It burned in twisted gold, upon His finger. Like some Spanish don, Conferring favours even when Asking an alms, he bowed again And waited. But my pockets proved Empty, in vain I poked and shoved, No hidden penny lurking there Greeted my search. "Sir, I declare I have no money, pray forgive, But let me take you where you live."

And so we plodded through the mire Where street lamps cast a wavering fire.

I took no note of where we went, His talk became the element Wherein my being swam, content.

It flashed like rapiers in the night Lit by uncertain candle-light, When on some moon-forsaken sward A quarrel dies upon a sword.

It hacked and carved like a cutla.s.s blade, And the noise in the air the broad words made Was the cry of the wind at a window-pane On an Autumn night of sobbing rain.

Then it would run like a steady stream Under pinnacled bridges where minarets gleam, Or lap the air like the lapping tide Where a marble staircase lifts its wide Green-spotted steps to a garden gate, And a waning moon is sinking straight Down to a black and ominous sea, While a nightingale sings in a lemon tree.

I walked as though some opiate Had stung and dulled my brain, a state Acute and slumbrous. It grew late.

We stopped, a house stood silent, dark.

The old man scratched a match, the spark Lit up the keyhole of a door, We entered straight upon a floor White with finest powdered sand Carefully sifted, one might stand Muddy and dripping, and yet no trace Would stain the boards of this kitchen-place.

From the chimney, red eyes sparked the gloom, And a cricket's chirp filled all the room.

My host threw pine-cones on the fire And crimson and scarlet glowed the pyre Wrapped in the golden flame's desire.

The chamber opened like an eye, As a half-melted cloud in a Summer sky The soul of the house stood guessed, and shy It peered at the stranger warily.

A little shop with its various ware Spread on shelves with nicest care.

Pitchers, and jars, and jugs, and pots, Pipkins, and mugs, and many lots Of lacquered canisters, black and gold, Like those in which Chinese tea is sold.

Chests, and puncheons, kegs, and flasks, Goblets, chalices, firkins, and casks.

In a corner three ancient amphorae leaned Against the wall, like ships careened.

There was dusky blue of Wedgewood ware, The carved, white figures fluttering there Like leaves adrift upon the air.

Cla.s.sic in touch, but emasculate, The Greek soul grown effeminate.

The factory of Sevres had lent Elegant boxes with ornament Culled from gardens where fountains splashed And golden carp in the shadows flashed, Nuzzling for crumbs under lily-pads, Which ladies threw as the last of fads.

Eggsh.e.l.l trays where gay beaux knelt, Hand on heart, and daintily spelt Their love in flowers, brittle and bright, Artificial and fragile, which told aright The vows of an eighteenth-century knight.

The cruder tones of old Dutch jugs Glared from one shelf, where Toby mugs Endlessly drank the foaming ale, Its froth grown dusty, awaiting sale.

The glancing light of the burning wood Played over a group of jars which stood On a distant shelf, it seemed the sky Had lent the half-tones of his blazonry To paint these porcelains with unknown hues Of reds dyed purple and greens turned blues, Of l.u.s.tres with so evanescent a sheen Their colours are felt, but never seen.

Strange winged dragons writhe about These vases, poisoned venoms spout, Impregnate with old Chinese charms; Sealed urns containing mortal harms, They fill the mind with thoughts impure, Pestilent drippings from the ure Of vicious thinkings. "Ah, I see,"

Said I, "you deal in pottery."

The old man turned and looked at me.

Shook his head gently. "No," said he.

Then from under his cloak he took the thing Which I had wondered to see him bring Guarded so carefully from sight.

As he laid it down it flashed in the light, A Toledo blade, with basket hilt, Damascened with arabesques of gilt, Or rather gold, and tempered so It could cut a floating thread at a blow.

The old man smiled, "It has no sheath, 'Twas a little careless to have it beneath My cloak, for a jostle to my arm Would have resulted in serious harm.

But it was so fine, I could not wait, So I brought it with me despite its state."

"An amateur of arms," I thought, "Bringing home a prize which he has bought."

"You care for this sort of thing, Dear Sir?"

"Not in the way which you infer.

I need them in business, that is all."

And he pointed his finger at the wall.

Then I saw what I had not noticed before.

The walls were hung with at least five score Of swords and daggers of every size Which nations of militant men could devise.

Poisoned spears from tropic seas, That natives, under banana trees, Smear with the juice of some deadly snake.

Blood-dipped arrows, which savages make And tip with feathers, orange and green, A quivering death, in harlequin sheen.

High up, a fan of glancing steel Was formed of claymores in a wheel.

Jewelled swords worn at kings' levees Were suspended next midshipmen's dirks, and these Elbowed stilettos come from Spain, Chased with some splendid Hidalgo's name.

There were Samurai swords from old j.a.pan, And scimitars from Hindoostan, While the blade of a Turkish yataghan Made a waving streak of vitreous white Upon the wall, in the firelight.

Foils with b.u.t.tons broken or lost Lay heaped on a chair, among them tossed The boarding-pike of a privateer.

Against the chimney leaned a queer Two-handed weapon, with edges dull As though from hacking on a skull.

The rusted blood corroded it still.

My host took up a paper spill From a heap which lay in an earthen bowl, And lighted it at a burning coal.

At either end of the table, tall Wax candles were placed, each in a small, And slim, and burnished candlestick Of pewter. The old man lit each wick, And the room leapt more obviously Upon my mind, and I could see What the flickering fire had hid from me.

Above the chimney's yawning throat, Shoulder high, like the dark wainscote, Was a mantelshelf of polished oak Blackened with the pungent smoke Of firelit nights; a Cromwell clock Of tarnished bra.s.s stood like a rock In the midst of a heaving, turbulent sea Of every sort of cutlery.

There lay knives sharpened to any use, The keenest lancet, and the obtuse And blunted pruning bill-hook; blades Of razors, scalpels, shears; cascades Of penknives, with handles of mother-of-pearl, And scythes, and sickles, and scissors; a whirl Of points and edges, and underneath Shot the gleam of a saw with bristling teeth.

My head grew dizzy, I seemed to hear A battle-cry from somewhere near, The clash of arms, and the squeal of b.a.l.l.s, And the echoless thud when a dead man falls.

A smoky cloud had veiled the room, Shot through with lurid glares; the gloom Pounded with shouts and dying groans, With the drip of blood on cold, hard stones.

Sabres and lances in streaks of light Gleamed through the smoke, and at my right A creese, like a licking serpent's tongue, Glittered an instant, while it stung.